


Too Late

by Eowyn (eowynsmusings)



Series: Snapshots [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it is just too late ... or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a series of ficlets. Stay tuned. This particular one is set about 23 minutes into 3.03.   
>   
>  Disclaimer: All QaF characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. No profit is being made, no copyright infringement is intended.   
>   
>  Beta: Beta'ed by Undomiel_48 as per usual.

His first draft of the poster is already fucking great – and he wondered why I went to him instead of those morons down in the Arts Department. But of course there are a few things that I want him to change. And no, that's not at all because it'll mean he's to come around yet again to hand over the final product. Not at all. 'And who are you trying to kid here, Kinney?' So I say, "The expression on his face needs to be more enticing ... but more foreboding. _Enter at your own risk, prepare to be fucked._ " Sounds like something I could have put on the door to the loft at one point in the past... He smirks and tells me that he thinks he can manage that, and I know I should have left it at that.  
  
But I've become a pathetic loser, who sees stupid blond twinks while sticking his dick down a trick's throat or shoving it up someone's ass. A loser who had to go and spend $30,000 on a car that is little more than _boyfriend-replacement-therapy_ – according to Mikey. He's right there, too. Which was also the case when he said that I really must love Justin after... I do. And I tried to show him in whichever way I could, but it wasn't enough. Because Brian Kinney simply doesn't deserve ... anything. How could I even think I would ever be worthy of someone like Justin?  
  
He's better off now. Happier ... I think. Fuck, I _hope_ he is. He certainly gets all the romantic bullshit I couldn't give him. _Couldn't_ being the key word here. I know I told him that I _wouldn't_ turn into the romantic boyfriend he wanted. But the truth is ... I couldn't. Not when the one romantic thing I ever did for him landed him in hospital, fighting for his life for three fucking days. Not to mention that it made me revisit that god-forsaken parking garage each and every night ... without fail.  
  
Yeah, Justin got out before it was too late – before I could drag him down with me and turn him into a cold-hearted, cynical bastard ... turn him into someone like me. And I got my fucking freedom back. I should be elated. Only I'm not. I needed to buy a 'vette, for fuck's sake! So I didn't have to drive around in the jeep that held so many memories of him ... sucking me off, being fucked into oblivion, arguing with me over something on the grocery list... That's how _overjoyed_ I am. I guess if I could just stay away from him... I'd at least be able to _pretend_ that there's no fucking emptiness where my heart was before. Crippled though it was. 'That would be the smart thing to do. Keep away from him and tell yourself that you can simply go back to how things were before he came along.' But I'm Brian Kinney, and I don't do things the easy way.  
  
And hey, what better way to end a for-shit day than a little self-torture session? "You could probably get a better view if you stood a little closer..." He looks at me ... strangely for a moment or two, but then comes over to sit next to me. 'Bad idea, Kinney! Very bad idea.' It's already hard enough to see him at the diner and not be able to reach out and touch him. I never knew how natural it had been to just have my arm around him, or to stroke his cheek, or – and I don't want to think about how fucking dykish it is – to play with his hair. Nope, never noticed that, until I couldn't do it anymore. And it's fucking hard to hold back, even when he's bussing tables and serving at the diner. But this close... I already mentioned that I'm a pathetic loser, so butt out.  
  
'Think about the poster, not about how soft that blond mess – he calls it a hairstyle – looks. Or how much you missed his clean smell...' Yeah, yeah. I'm a cheap copy of the man I was before. But I'm forcing myself to focus. On his work, damn it! Not on him. "And his hips need to be more in profile to accentuate his cock." He laughs, and I can hardly remember the last time I saw that smile – or any smile for that matter – on his face. Fuck!  
  
"It's always about sex..." If only. Then it'd be fucking easy. What did I tell him? _You get in and out with a maximum of pleasure, and a minimum of bullshit._ I should have listened to my own advice. But no. I had to go and let him in. Had to allow him closer than anyone else had ever been – including Mikey and Linz. 'You had to fall in love, you mean?' Shut. The. Fuck. Up!  
  
He's waiting for a response, something like "Hell yes!", but I can't give him that. The advertising genius is lost for words, call in the media. Then I come up with something lame, but he seems to buy it. "Unless it's about death, but ... death doesn't sell tickets." He smirks, somewhat pained, and reaches for the board ... and our fingers brush for just a short moment, but... I feel like a man dying of thirst at the sight of a fountain, or a bottle of water, or what the fuck! One touch, and that does it for me. He's leaning towards me anyway, so it's only too easy to move my head and...  
  
It's not like any of the millions of kisses we've shared – unless you count those right after he came to live here... It's just a brush of lips, hardly even a kiss. But then he gasps, and I see my chance and slide my tongue out, only to find that his beat me to it. The board drops to the ground with a bang, but we don't even realise it. His hand is in my hair, drawing me closer, and hey, if he can do it so can I. I was right about it being soft. He lets it grow out, and it's so fucking silky... He breaks away, eyes dilated, breathing heavily. Staring at me. He's clearly shocked, but also turned on. 'Don't move, Kinney. Don't make him bolt.' I won't. Fuck, I'm not sure I could move if I had to. I think I'm even holding my breath as I see all the contradicting thoughts flicker across his face, and it'll be just a moment now and he'll decide. And I'm praying – yeah, _praying_ – that he'll stay. I fucking need him. There, I admitted it. I need him.  
  
And just when he's about to initiate another kiss, just when he's ready to say, "Fuck Ian," the door screeches open. "I picked up Chinese food." Fuck. Mikey! I'd totally forgotten that he'd said he was going to come over tonight. Shit! Justin jumps up as if the devil himself was on his heels and is out in no time. Mikey does a lovely imitation of a carp, and I... I realise that I was wrong before. That empty feeling in my chest, that was what a broken heart feels like. But now Justin took up a dagger and pushed it in, twisting it around just to make sure I really felt it. And I want the emptiness back. Because it hurts, it fucking hurts!  
  
Mikey stares at me as if I'd grown another head, and then comes over to me, hugging me tightly. I should just push him away, but I can't. And if that means that I'm the first officially dickless fag in the Pitts, so be it. "It won't last..." I beg your pardon? He steps back to elaborate. "The fiddler doesn't know ... doesn't understand him. And Justin..." He rakes his fingers through his hair and shrugs. "I should have kept my mouth shut..." Great. Now Mikey's joined the club of _Let's Blame Ourselves for Every Fuck-up under the Sun_. And I have to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that I _knew_ before he dropped the bomb.  
  
By the time we remember the food, it's cold and I feel like I've just been fried. I swear I never had such a conversation with ... anyone. Least of all Mikey. But being punched by your best friend drives a few things home, it seems. And it transforms you into the sort of friend you always should have been. The kind that wants the best for his friend, even if that is the _trick who never left_. Only, it's too late now. Just like it always is in my so-called life. It's too fucking late...

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued in "Oh L'Amour".


End file.
